


wytai

by Alienu



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Blood and Injury, Canon Divergence, Friendship, Gen, Killing, No Romance, Swearing, Violence, no beta we die like george in manhunt, some DreamNotFound if you really squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26010013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alienu/pseuds/Alienu
Summary: Maybe in another world, they could be friends without worries.wytai - the feeling you have when you reflect on modern society and find it absurd or grotesque.Based off of @ATiredShota’s AU on Twitter.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 124
Collections: DreamTeam





	wytai

**Author's Note:**

> yes hi i’m joining a fandom based off of grown men playing a block game.
> 
> !!! Please note that most of these concepts are not canon, as the original story has yet to touch on any of these subjects. Check out Ellipsism on Wattpad for the original story. !!!

_ wytai - the feeling you have when you reflect on modern society and find it absurd or grotesque. _

George stands the forefront of a silent room, his lab coat thrown haphazardly over his shoulders. The sparkling technology at either side of him lights up with blue, complicated procedures and commands appearing on the screen as the people behind it tapped buttons with every inch of professionalism. 

He, with his trademark white goggles (he had gotten colorblind lenses built into them a few years ago) and messy brown hair, looked anything but.

Oh well, not that it mattered. He was still the mechanic and scientist who played a big part in creating what they called the Ender Astral device, a claw-like machine designed to insert the End Crystal into a chosen soldier.

The otherworldly contraption had taken years to perfect, especially since handling alien technology had never been simple—even for advanced mechanics like him. It probably didn’t help that he had also been tasked with designing many different weapons for the army, ranging from bows to flamethrowers to even guns at some point. Despite this influx of work, he had still managed to complete the weapon in record time. The only problem left to solve had been who to test it on first.

The first chosen soldier, a grim faced swordsman who—after the insertion of the End Crystal—had been given the codename Technoblade, had provided incredible data thus far. Inhumane regeneration abilities, insane strength and speed—what more could they have asked for from the stolen alien technology?

And here was the second, a blond. He was tall—George estimated 6”1 at least—with sharp green eyes and a freckle dusted face. He looked young, probably in his twenties.

The soldier sits on the metal table in the center of the room, eyes avoiding the bright white lights that lit up the chamber. George turns to a similarly white clad woman. “File?” 

She hands him the yellow folder without argument. He takes it with a muttered ‘thank you’ and opens it. On the front page are the standard details; age, name, birth date, rank, physical test scores, etcetera. He skims most of the info, storing in his brain a few important pieces— _ Clay was his name, and he was 21. Great PT test scores….spotless record. Favored weapon is a tungsten carbide axe...volunteered for the elite soldier program. _ Five seconds later, the mechanic snapped the folder clothes, giving a nod towards the workers managing the technology. “Give him the go ahead.”

There’s a signal, and the man who had escorted the volunteer into the room gestures for him to lay down. He complies, and soon the control room dims with only the light of the consoles allowing him to see through the darkness.

The escort scientist takes out what has been the center of George’s life for years now. The Ender Astral device was, to say the least, intimidating. It had 3 sharp prongs, perfectly designed to shove straight into someone’s chest without trouble, and a handle at the end. Purple streaks were dashed through the device, glowing bright with the energy of the crystal. Speaking of which, the crystal itself was in the center of the 3 prongs, floating in a manner previously seen only on sci-fi TV shows.

George leans down to the microphone, his hands finding the button placed right under it, and speaks. “Insert in three...”

Clay’s eyes flicker towards him, almost as if he can see him through the one sided glass. George tries to pretend he doesn’t see the nervousness dancing within the young soldier’s eyes.

“Two...”

Suddenly this whole thing, the war and the weapons and the efforts to save the world seem so very pointless. Why not just let the aliens destroy Earth? It’s not like they had done a very good job at taking care of it in the first place. Maybe this was God’s punishment to the humans, for being selfish and so absorbed in their own lives that they forgot to care for the other life on the planet.

_ Get a hold of yourself.  _ A voice that sounds suspiciously like Fundy snaps.  _ We’re fighting for the survival of humanity. _

He sees the blond’s fists tighten as the other scientist prepares to insert the machine into him.

“One...”

The volunteer’s chest rises in what he assumes is a deep breath.

“Insert the crystal.”

Clay screams. 

The device is shoved unceremoniously into his chest, painful and agonizing as the End Crystal fills the chamber with a violent pink-purple light. Even though George had already seen this happen once, he couldn’t help but be mesmerized as the soldier’s green eyes glow purple and a similar glow outlines his veins. The blond’s back arches as he spasms, voice dying out but his mouth hanging open in a silent cry of agony.

Of course George knew it would be incredibly painful, after all the process was literally shoving a sharp metal device into your chest—what did they expect it to feel like? Feathers? But he didn’t predict the way his stomach was churning in discomfort as he watched the soldier writhe in suffering.

George feels a sudden burst of disgust. This was wrong. What were they even doing here? Using their own people as weapons—implanting alien technology into bodies not meant for it? It was all so very...nauseating to him now. It was at times like these that George wished he could be a simple man, living out in the countryside and hunting animals for a living. 

He’s forced to watch, wanting to look away but unable to. A few agonizing moments later, the pain seems to have mostly dissipated, though the now elite soldier was still trembling. The man holding the Ender Astral device sets it down on a metal tray on top of a table, his arm reaching out to grab hold of the newly improved soldier’s arm. 

Slowly, Clay slings his arm around the scientist, and unsteadily walks out of the room. The brunette gives a little sigh of relief, all he needed now was some rest so his body could adjust to the new enhancements—then he would be fine, just as Technoblade had been.

He ignored the claps of victory from his coworkers—this was only one step forward for humanity’s survival, after all—and strides over to the exit. The door parts with a slight whirr, and he steps through the polished white metal and into the quiet building hallways.

Those weapons weren’t going to design themselves, after all.

——

They lost.

After all they’ve gone through, all the things they’ve given up, all the people that have lost their lives…

Humanity lost.

It shouldn’t have been any surprise, now that he thought about it. Earth had put up a good fight, but the mecha mobs had been too powerful, and the mecha factories had been producing more mechs than they could fight off. Humanity had been all but wiped out, and George was fortunate enough to survive.

He doesn’t feel fortunate.

The brunette carefully stepped over a large piece of rubble, the weight of his bow comforting in his hands. The sun’s rays filter through the cracks in the tree's leaves, it’s warm light kissing the moist rubble, wet from the morning dew.

An unexpected crash sounds. George stumbles, tripping over a piece of metal sticking out from a large chunk of a wall. He yelps, weapon clattering to the ground loudly and his hands scraping against the pebble littered concrete.

“Son of a bitch.” He curses, wiping his red palms against his black jeans. His brief anger is quickly forgotten when there is another crash—and then another followed by heavy, slow footsteps.

George hustles, snatching his bow in his hand and nocking an arrow quickly. It’s become natural for him now, drawing the taut bowstring back with an arrow between his fingers. The former mechanic and scientist takes a quick glance around, looking for any potential cover as the heavy stomps sound closer. He can hear the telltale hiss of a creeper as it searched for any victims.

He spots a relatively put together building a few meters away. He starts sprinting, feet pounding against the once busy road that now stands barren and dirtied, with weeds growing from the cracks in the pavement and abandoned cars scattered along the road.

Down the street, the creeper bumbles along, about to turn the corner onto the street he was on. The squeal of straining metal is loud—it’s probably crushing a few cars as it goes along. He glances back, seeing the vibrant green leg of the mob as it approaches. 

Looking is a mistake, and he trips.

This time, George keeps a tight hold on his weapon, but as he falls to the ground the weight of his body and gravity ensures that the bow crushes his fingers painfully. He inhales sharply, willing himself not to make any noise despite the searing pain in his fingers. Optimistically, he thinks that maybe he’ll get lucky and the creeper won’t see him.

The universe isn’t so kind, though. The creeper turns the corner, it’s red eyes locking into the blue clad human who was struggling to his feet. He swears that it almost hisses in delight, the intimidating missile launchers beginning to spin in preparation as it skittered closer. George’s heart pounds furiously as he turns around, sending an arrow flying at the mech. It embeds itself into the creeper’s metal, not reaching any of the crucial wiring like he hoped it would.

It’s eyes gleam, as if it were laughing at him. The missile launchers protruding from it’s sides begin to whirr, preparing to launch one of its explosives at him.

George begins to run. He isn’t quite sure how much range that the green mech’s missiles had, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. Rocks scatter as his feet pound against the pavement, making a beeline for the half-wrecked building. If he could get away somewhere to hide, the creeper would likely lose sight him and move on.

An explosion behind him almost knocks him off his feet. George hisses in constrained pain when a stray rock flies into his ankle. There’d probably be a bruise there later. He rights himself and keeps going, urging his legs to run as his brain screams at him to  _ don’tdiedon’tdiedon’tdie. _

_ You can’t die like this! _

The mechanic grips his bow tightly, the hard material digging into his palm as he staggers to the building. There’s another explosion to the right of him, sending pebbles and dust flying towards his goggle covered eyes. 

Either the creeper’s aim was off, or it was toying him. George was almost certain that it was the latter. His stomach twists in unadulterated fear and a raw will to  _ survive _ courses through him. His ankle is burning and his fingers are sore from the fall as he half limps, half runs towards safety.

He can hear the telltale hum of the mecha’s weapon, prepared to fire yet the finishing projectile, and begins to accept his fate with resigned defeat. He can only hope it will be painless, thought he knows it likely won’t be. The creeper’s footsteps pound loud, above the roar of blood in his ringing ears. He curses, forcing himself to go faster in a dull hope for survival. 

His savior arrives in a blur of green and a flash of black.

George starts when there is a hiss from the creeper, something in its tone telling him it’s not directed to him. There’s the sound of boots slapping against the pavement, a grunt from a foreign voice, and then there’s the unusual sound of metal slitting metal. 

He hears the creeper collapse with a loud crash and winces, almost afraid to turn around. Would he be next? This person would probably kill him and take all of his gear. He wouldn’t be surprised, not only was he injured and weak but whoever could take down a mecha creeper on their own must be insanely skilled. The dust from the creeper’s crash to the floor settles back onto the ground after a few moments. He stills, listening to the calm way that the stranger strode towards him.

George takes a deep breath, and turns around to face his rescuer (or potential murderer). But instead of a dirty, intimidating face like he had predicted, he meets a white mask.

A  _ smiling _ , white mask. 

He’s clad in a lime green jacket, the black rimmed collar pulled up high around his neck as an equally lime green hood covers the rest of his head. His appearance is somewhat...unnerving. Maybe it was how ominous and cryptic the smile on the mask seemed—splattered with oil from the creeper’s insides—or maybe it was the giant, raven black and green axe he held. There’s a long moment when they just stare at each other, tension thick in the air. The mechanic speaks first, his tone cautious and holding clear hints of distrust.

“You saved me.” George begins warily, scrutinizing the taller man through his goggles. 

The man replies levelly, his tone indecipherable, “So I did.”

It’s silent again. George isn’t quite sure what to do, did this man want to kill him or not? Or was he just going to let him go? It was hard to tell, and the fact that he was unreadable made him nervous.

The man’s head tilts down, observing the way that George leaned his weight on his left foot. He looked back up, and George almost wept with relief when he strapped his large axe onto the white, blob-like backpack he was carrying around. The green man nods down towards his burning ankle. “You’re hurt.”

“What’s it to you?” George says defensively, his fingers tensing around his bowstring as he shuffles back a little. A jolt of pain shoots through his ankle when he accidentally puts too much weight on it. He grits his teeth with a sharp inhale. 

The axe-wielder holds his hands up in surrender, “No need to be so defensive. I saved you, didn’t I?”

“You could kill me and take all my stuff.” The mechanic points out dryly. He raises his bow up slightly, prepared to grab an arrow if he needed.

The green man chuckles, “I could do that. Good idea,” he muses, gloved hands lowering to shove into the pockets of his jacket. George grabs an arrow quickly, notching it and aiming it at the other man.

“Relax, I’m joking.” He laughs, seemingly unfazed by the sharp arrow pointing at the center of his forehead. George blinks in bewilderment, here he was pointing an arrow straight at this guy’s face and he wasn’t even scared? He seemed indifferent to the fact that his life could end here, from one shift of the other’s fingers.

So he was either fearless, or just plain stupid.

“Are you gonna put the bow down?” The masked man drawls lazily, “Trust me, if I wanted to kill you, I would have.”

He held back a scoff. “Reassuring.” George mutters sarcastically, lowering his weapon despite his sharp tone. He loosens his hold on the arrow, though not putting it away, still unsure of whether to trust this stranger or not. His gaze flickers behind the man, to the pile of slashed metal and wires spilling out like black guts from the deep gashes in the creeper’s armor. Considering he had taken out one of the most dangerous mecha mobs so easily, George had reason to believe the guy when he said he could’ve ended George’s life.

He gives a little sigh of resignation, tucking his arrow away as a sign of peace. His eyes narrow, still glaring at the masked man with unrestrained suspicion. “What do you want? If it’s my supplies, I don’t have much. And my bow is my only weapon, so if you want anything from me you’re better off just killing me.”

“What’s your name?” He ignores the former scientist’s statement.

“What’s yours?” The brunette retorts.

“Dream.”

George scoffs at the blatant falsehood, “That’s not your name.”

“It’s not,” ‘Dream’ admits with a shrug, “but that’s what people have been calling me ever since the world went to shit. So, what’s your name?”

He hesitates, still a bit unsure about whether to give it out or not. Eventually he just sighs, “George.”

Dream nods in acknowledgement, gesturing down to his aching ankle, “Do you have supplies to treat your injuries, George?” 

“Does it matter?” He asks curtly. 

His head tilts slightly, seeming either amused or a bit exasperated at his icy treatment, “Me and my friend have stuff that might be able to help, if you want it.”

“What’s in it for you?” 

“Nothing. Except for a new friend, hopefully.”

“A  _ friend _ ?” He echoes, bemused at this man’s way of thinking. First Dream had put himself in danger just to save him, and then George pointed an arrow at his face, and he wanted  _ nothing _ in return?

This had to be a joke.

If surviving in the apocalypse has taught him anything, it had taught him that people only wanted to help others if they benefited from it. The idea of someone risking their life for him and then further offering to help him for  _ nothing _ at all was—quite frankly—absurd. There had to be some kind of catch, some kind of secret motive hidden behind his charming voice and kind actions.

“So whaddya say, George?” The mask stared at him, and the mechanic was almost sure that the man behind it was grinning. “Let’s survive this shit hole of a world together, hmm?” He holds his gloved hand out in a far too cheerful manner, cocking his head as he awaited a response.

George wonders if this guy was some sort of politician or negotiator before the apocalypse. His voice was smooth, charming and there was something in it that screamed at his brain to trust this green clad man, despite having just met him. 

For once, George decides to trust his instincts. After all, what was there to lose at this point?

He takes Dream’s hand.

——

All George wanted was a peaceful, chill night with his two friends. 

But of course, as always, the universe took his wish and had to throw it back at his face.

And so he finds himself chasing the rapidly shrinking back of a certain lime green axe-wielder as he pursues the troublesome supply thief. This building is old and crumbling, abandoned desks strewn every which way and papers scattered on the dust layered floor. It had likely been an office building before the apocalypse. Not that it mattered anymore, but it was always nice to be a little observant.

George pants heavily, his lungs burning for more and more oxygen with every step he took. His legs are aching, how could Dream even run so fast for so long? It barely made any sense. He remembers when even Sapnap had commented on it, saying that Dream’s crazy physical abilities were almost inhumane. The pyromaniac’s comment had only served to get him a short laugh and a comment to shut up from the masked survivor, though even George had heard the hint of a warning in his words. It had befuddled him at first—curiosity about why the offhanded statement had received such a sharp reply—but over the past few weeks he has learned not to question a lot of things about his mysterious friend.

He huffed and puffed, watching as the thief ran into a room at the end of the hall. Dream had halted just outside of the door, his breathing labored from the lengthy exercise, and nodded towards it when George finally caught up. “She trapped herself.” 

“Seriously?” He almost laughed, “This should be easy then.”

Dream shook his head, the smiling mask a blaring reminder of how dangerous the world now was, “She has a pistol.”

George winces, the thought of dying by a single shot from a thief flashing through his mind. That would be an embarrassing death, especially since he had come so far (in terms of skill) since the mecha creeper incident which had led him to meet Dream, and later Sapnap. The quiet thud of Dream resting his axe on the floor snaps George out of his reverie, his eyebrows lowering in worry, “So...what now?”

He shrugs, “I can distract her while you take her out.”

“You want me to shoot her?” He blinks in disbelief.

“She’s a thief. And a threat.” Dream says, and if his icy tone told him anything it was that he was probably scowling under his mask “I don’t want you to kill her if possible, but don’t be afraid to hurt her.”

There’s no use arguing. He knew that the other man was correct, after all. “Right.” The brunette agrees readily, ignoring the way his stomach curls at the thought of sending one of his arrows into another person. It was different when he shot at the mechas. Mechas were emotionless killing machines—so he could take one down without any regrets, but the thought of an  _ actual _ person crying out in pain and bleeding  _ because of him _ was...scary.

There’s a long moment where his friend just looks at him, his comically large backpack a white, blobby background looming over his head. George takes a deep breath, his hands tightening around the handle of his bow. The hollow arrow between his fingers feels cold and grossly natural.

He shouldn’t have to be here, holding a bow in his hand talking about killing someone who is trying to survive just as much as they are.

But as Dream always said, there was no use worrying about something that could not be changed. The only thing they could do was live through it. 

“Ready?” Dream asks, his fingers tapping impatiently on the black handle of his axe. The green on the weapon is annoyingly vibrant in the darkness of the office building. 

He nods, trying to ignore the loud thrumming of his heart against his chest. He inhales again, his thin arms drawing the arrow back against the bowstring. As always, the taut wire resists, struggling to return back to its natural state. 

He watches as Dream takes off his backpack, setting the white pack next to the door quietly. It looks out of place, stark white in contrast to the dirty and dusty grey of the walls. The axe-wielder slowly creeps up to the door, his weapon gripped tightly in one hand and another poised on the doorknob.

“Alright, three…”

George raises his bow, preparing to shoot when needed. 

“Two…”

The white mask looks back at him one more time, giving a little nod of reassurance.

“One…”

The brunette steps forward slightly, ready to run forward.

“Go.”

Dream throws open the door, bursting into the room with his axe ready to swing. George follows, moving to the right as opposed to Dream’s dodge to the left as a bullet immediately flies between them. George feels the hairs on his arms stand upright as he hears the bullet embed itself into the wall, just barely missing the skin of his cheek.

That could’ve been him.

Dream approaches the girl. Her hair is long and brown, tied into a short ponytail. In her free hand, she clutches a black backpack full of  _ their _ stuff to her chest. 

“Take one more step and I’ll shoot the green fucker in the head.” She hisses, her face contorted into a nasty snarl as she aims the firearm straight at Dream’s head. George points his bow at the lady, ready to fire even though he knows that the arrow won’t reach her in time to stop her from firing at his friend. The least he could do was take her out for revenge, even if the thought of Dream dying made him sick to his stomach.

Dream holds his hands up, as best as he can with one wielding his large weapon. “Look, we can talk this out.” He offers, his voice oddly smooth and reassuring. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

She doesn’t fall for it, keeping the gun steady as she fixes her gaze on Dream. George took the opportunity to shuffle forward a little, just enough that he could get a better shot but hopefully not be noticed. 

The supply thief laughs, “Bullshit. There’s nothing to talk about,” she says shortly, her gaze flickering to George, noticing the change in position. Her finger moves to the trigger. “I told you not to move!”

“George.” Dream warns quietly, scarily calm considering the situation they were in. His tone is grim, a warning in it that he shouldn’t move any farther.

He gives a short nod of acknowledgement. 

The woman starts to shuffle towards them, heading for the exit. She keeps her gun aimed at the masked survivor, eyes darting quickly between the two of them. Something in his peripheral vision shifts, and George looks to the side to see Sapnap, his black hair and orange fuel tank peeking over the bottom of what used to be a window, it’s glass long since shattered. 

_ Had he climbed all the way to the second floor?  _ George thought, alarmed. He knew that Sapnap was pretty good at scaling things—but he never would’ve imagined that he would take that kind of risk, especially in the pitch blackness of night.

Dream seems to spot him too, judging from the way his head tilts down and the hand around his weapon tightens in preparation.

The thief notices their change in demeanor, her head tilting back to gaze at the empty frame. Straight at the cat-like brown eyes of his other friend. He sees Sapnap’s mouth move slightly, probably swearing, as he vaults through the window and into the room, his orange and black boots crunching on the glass shards as he begins to sprint toward the ponytailed thief.

She swears loudly and turns back fast enough to see Dream leaping forward with his intimidating weapon in hand, poised to swing. She snarls, her fingers closing down on the trigger in a blur.

Dream doesn’t dodge fast enough. His head snaps back violently as the gun fires with a sickening bang, body crumpling to the floor mid-sprint as the bullet tears a neat hole through the top of his mask. Blood sprays from the back of his head, the lead projectile making a clean path through his skull and coming out the other side. He lays limp, axe falling to the ground in a muffled clatter. The woman pays this no mind, whirling around to point her gun at the sprinting pyromaniac.

“DREAM!” George yells, watching the body of his friend lay still on the floor. An unadulterated rage fills him. Who the  _ fuck _ did this woman think she was? Stealing  _ their _ stuff and then having the arrogance to shoot his friend. 

_ “YOU BITCH!”  _ Sapnap screams, reaching for the weapon strapped to his back. George beats him to it, letting his arrow loose and watching it fly into the woman’s throat. She gurgles in surprise, releasing the gun and choking on her own blood as the crimson liquid begins to seep down her neck and stain her dirtied clothes. Her firearm hits the floor, and if it made any noise George wouldn’t have been able to hear over the ringing in his ears. She collapses with a heavier thud, gagging and gasping for air as blood filled her lungs.

George pays her no attention, rushing over to the limp body of his friend. The sound of blood rushing is loud in his ears as he kneels near Dream, his mask already having repaired itself with its advanced nanotechnology. He looks first at the drying blood splattered on the carpet, then at the blood stained hood, and feels sick to his stomach.

Sapnap rushes over, having finished off the murderer of their comrade, and crouched next to him. He digs into the backpack that the girl had taken, taking out the first aid kit, a cloth, and a half filled water bottle.

“Take the mask off.” He orders, wetting the towel with water. “We need to treat it.”

The mechanic stares at him in disbelief through a pair of tear filled eyes, “He’s dead, Sapnap! What’s the point?” 

The pyromaniac soldier mutters under his breath, loud enough so George could just barely catch the last few words that consisted of “stupid Dream” and “secrets” before he turned to grab George by the shoulders.

“Look,” he starts, voice grim with determination and worry. George winces at the painfully tight way he held his shoulders, “he’s not dead. Trust me on this, Dream will explain to you later. He didn’t want you to find out this way. So just help me take it off so I can help him.”

George wouldn’t have believed him if not for the fact that he could see the barely noticeable rise and fall of Dream’s chest. It was absurd—how the hell could someone survive that?—but he decides to stop wasting time on questions and help Sapnap treat their friend. The brunette mutters under his breath, peeling back the lime hood carefully to reveal Dream’s dirty blond hair. He had seen the axe-wielder’s face a few times before, though it had always only been for a short time. 

He works carefully, lifting his head and gently removing the mask from the blond’s face. The strap holding it steady was black and bloodied. Sapnap inhales sharply when he sees the bloodied hair at the back of Dream’s head. 

Small puffs of breath make their way from between his slightly parted lips, a reassuring sign for his two friends. Sapnap grabs the rag, cleaning first the gaping hole in his forehead. George watches him carefully, disbelief coursing through him as he watches the wound become less and less noticeable. 

Was it just him, or was it getting smaller?

The orange and white clad soldier beside him mutters softly under his breath, the words unintelligible to the mechanic at his side. George takes the time to examine Dream’s face. His features are surprisingly peaceful, with long eyelashes brushing gently against the smooth skin of his upper cheeks. His face is dusted with freckles, an endearing feature for someone so ready to kill. Meanwhile, Sapnap takes some disinfectant, gently dabbing the now nearly closed wound with it. 

“Dream you hoe, you better wake up right now.” The blackette grumbles, gesturing for George to lift him up so that he could get the back of his head. George does so, grunting at the weight of the green wearing man. 

“Why’s he so heavy?” He complains, his bare fingers pressing against the soft fabric of Dream’s jacket.

Sapnap cracks a strained grin, “He’s a fatass.” He jokes, and George finds himself laughing despite the situation. 

“You’re one to talk.”

“Dream!” George gasps, relief rushing through him like a wildfire when he hears the tired voice of his friend. Sapnap makes a similar noise of relief, taking the gauze out moving to wrap it around the wounded man’s head. “How the hell-“

Dream sits up, bringing one hand up to clutch his probably aching head. He sighs, grabbing onto George’s outstretched arm for support, “George, please just shut up. I’ll explain later. My head hurts like a bitch right now.”

Obediently, he snaps his mouth shut, embarrassment rushing through him. “Right. Sorry.”

Dream grunts in acknowledgement, cracking one eye open to reveal it’s stunningly green color. George watches his eyes flicker to the lifeless body of the thief. If he felt any sympathy for her, it wasn’t shown as his gaze shifts back to his two friends. “You got our stuff?”

“Everything.” Sapnap confirms, zipping the backpack filled with their supplies shut. The clean gauze is stark white against Dream’s darker hair, tied in a fashion reminiscent of the pyromaniac’s own white headband. 

The green clad man nods, letting go of George’s arm for a second to reach around for his axe. It had clattered to the ground unceremoniously, and lay a few feet away from where the three were. Immediately, George stands, jogging towards it to retrieve the sharp weapon. He grunts at the heavy weight of it—how did dream manage to hold this with one hand?—and lugs it back over to his friend. Dream takes the handle with a small mutter of ‘thanks,’ probably relishing in the familiar feeling of his weapon just as George always did with his bow, and Sapnap with his gun.

Speaking of the fire lover himself, Sapnap’s head snaps up, his acute hearing picking up on a soft groan from something far too large and powerful to be another human.

“We should go.” The pyromaniac says sharply, picking up his gun, “There are mecha zombies around.”

Dream gives a short nod, all of them knew that they were in no shape to fight a horde of mechs, and George helps him up. Dream slings an arm around the shorter man’s shoulder—it was almost comical considering that the mechanic was nearly a head shorter than him. Sapnap hands him his cleaned mask, and gives George the retrieved arrow that had embedded itself into the now dead thief’s throat.

George stares at the light projectile, blood coating the sharp tip. His eyes shift back to stare at her limp body, still and lifeless even though it had been so animated just moments before. 

He did that.

He killed her.

All of a sudden he feels dirty, he can feel the dried blood clinging to his fingers and the dirt smeared on his cheek. His clothes are sweaty, blood even on those too. It makes him want to vomit. Never in his life had he imagined he would take someone’s life—sure he made weapons and designed tools, but those were for other people. He had never watched someone die at his hand before. Years ago, the idea of him doing such a thing was laughable, absurd in his eyes.

The irony was suffocating.

Dream notices his hesitance, and grabs the arrow from Sapnap for him. He wipes the blood on his dirty black pants, then hands it to George. 

“You did what you had to.” He says, his voice oddly monotonous. George remembers for a moment that Sapnap had said they met through being fellow soldiers during the war. They must’ve killed lots of people before. It was just another death to them, probably.

In a way, he envies them.

Sapnap pats his shoulder sympathetically, “It’s always hard the first time.” He assures, “It gets easier. If you hadn’t done it we’d both be dead. You should be proud.”

“Yeah.” George agrees, the hand gripping Dream’s wrist tightening its hold ever so slightly.

He didn’t feel very proud at all.

——

The fire shines orange light on their faces, the fiery warmth filling the air around them. Dream sits against a slanted rock, leaning against the broken concrete with his eyes closed. He isn’t wearing his mask, probably preferring to keep as much pressure off of his head as possible. His backpack sits next to him, its black smiley face far too similar to the one on his mask to be unintentional.

“Feeling better?” Sapnap asked the green clad man, tossing him a piece of dried jerky. He caught it with no trouble, despite there being little to no warning beforehand. George himself munched on a slice of bread, the flavor plain and dry. He had to take a sip of water with every bite, to help himself swallow it easier.  _ It’s better than nothing. _

“Yeah.” Dream mutters, tearing off a piece of the jerky and shoving it in his mouth. “It still hurts like a motherfucker.”

“Gee, I never would’ve guessed.” George retorts sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like you got shot in the head or anything. How do you even survive that?”

Sapnap and Dream glanced at each other, seemingly having a silent conversation. The mechanic watches as Sapnap jerks his head towards him, raising his eyebrows. In response, Dream shrugs, his previously peaceful expression turning sour. His lips press into a thin line, as he drops his gaze to stare at the half eaten jerky.

Sapnap’s eyebrows raise even higher.

Dream sighs.

George coughs loudly, “Hello, I’m still here.”

Shooting yet another look at their black haired friend, Dream’s head lolls in his direction. His intelligent green eyes locking onto George’s analytical brown ones, a sight he didn’t get to see often.

“You know about the special soldier program that the government put in place during the war, right?”

He stills, never thinking that he would have heard that term used again. He had been under the impression that most of the super soldiers had given up their lives just before humanity lost. Apparently, this was not the case.

“George?” Dream inquires, concern lacing his words. 

He ignores the tightening of his throat as he thought about his time working for the government, “Yeah—um—you’re talking about the soldiers who had those End Crystals implanted in them. And you’re one of them?”

The blond nods, gesturing to Sapnap who was watching the encounter carefully. “Yeah. Sapnap only knows cuz we worked together in the military.”

“So-“ his mind blanks as he attempts to process this information, “-that means that you, what, have crazy strength? And regeneration powers?”

“All that and more. I was given the code name Dream after the implants.” Dream replies tiredly. “If it isn’t obvious enough, a normal human would’ve died from a shot to the head like that.” For a reason unknown to the mechanic, he seems angry, or even distraught at the idea of being enhanced. It was odd. To George, the idea of not being as fragile as a regular human—like having physical boosts like super strength and stamina—it was exciting. 

He opens his mouth to speak hesitantly, not quite sure whether it would be considered offensive or not, “You don’t sound very happy about it.”

The fire flares, and a wolf howls in the distance. Probably wandering the ruined city.

Dream gives a wry laugh, his features suddenly seeming so much more tired and weary than the mechanic recalled them being, “When you get treated more like a weapon than a human being, the novelty of being ‘powerful’ starts to wear off.” 

“Honestly, I just thought you were really fit.” The brunette shrugs, his chest blooming with satisfaction as his friend’s frown morphs into a small smile of amusement. 

Sapnap laughs, startling him a little bit as he had been so quiet, “Well, you’re right about that too.” He chuckles, “I’ve seen him in the locker rooms. He’s pretty hot.” The pyromaniac waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

George chuckles, rolling his eyes at the silliness of the black haired soldier, “Is this true Dream?” He adds on to the joke.

Dream raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Sapnap, “Why were you looking at me in the locker room?”

“It was impressive!” He exclaims defensively, crossing his arms over the black vest he wore. “All of our squadmates snuck in a peek at least once!”

The blond makes a face, his nose wrinkling in feigned disgust, “You guys are fucking weird.”

“Say what you want,” Sapnap shrugs, “I dunno about George, but I’m not opposed to another look.” He winks.

George gasps at his words, laughter bubbling up from his chest, “Sapnap!” He laughed at Dream’s grinning face.

“Maybe you’ll get one when George is asleep.” The green clad man said, playfully flirtatious.

“Oh my god.” George shook his head in disbelief, “I cannot believe I’m hearing this.”

“I mean, Georgie—polyamory goes hard.” Sapnap cracks a grin.

Dream let out a shout of laughter at the statement, doubling over as he wheezed for breath. George couldn’t help himself from laughing too, the statement coupled with Dream’s infectious, hysteric laugh was just a recipe for disaster. The pyromaniac chuckled too, his face contorted in momentary joy. The night was silent, filled only with their giggles and snorts and the crackling of their fire. 

They probably sounded so stupid, wheezing and giggling over a joke that wasn’t even that funny to begin with. For a moment, George allowed himself to forget about everything—the war, losing, the super soldiers—and just laughed with his two friends. 

Maybe the universe didn’t hate him as much as he thought.

**Author's Note:**

> this took 3 days and I am tired :’) let me know if you want to see more one shots like this cuz i’m feeling the motivation rn


End file.
